well.” The unseen warder trod on the backs of Ziani’s knees, forcing him down; the other man came forward with a
stable bucket, shaking out dusty old grain. Ziani felt the wood under his chin. “Grab his hair,” the second warder said, “hold
him steady. Halberd’s not the right tool for this job.”
A simple matter of timing, then. Ziani felt the warder’s knuckles against his scalp, then the pain as his hair was pulled,
forcing his cheek against the bucket. He heard the cutter’s feet crackle in the straw as he stepped up to his mark, in his
mind’s eye he saw him take a grip on the halberd shaft and raise his arms. A good engineer has the knack of visualization,
the ability to orchestrate the concerted action of the mechanism’s moving parts. At the moment when he reckoned the cutter’s
swing had reached its apex and was coming down, he dug his knees into the straw and arched his back, jerking his shoulders
and head backward. He felt a handful of his hair pull out, but he was moving, hauling the other warder toward him.
He heard the halberd strike; a flat, solid shearing noise, as its edge bit into the warder’s forearms, catching them just
right against the base of the iron band that ran round the bottom of the bucket. By the time the warder screamed, he was loose;
he hopped up like a frog, located the cutter (standing with a stupid expression on his face, looking at the shorn stub of
his mate’s left hand) and stamped his foot into the poor fool’s kidneys. It wasn’t quite enough to put him down; but the other
man had obligingly left his halberd leaning up against a partition. All Ziani knew about weapons was how to make them, but
he did understand tools — leverage, mechanical advantage — and the principles were more or less the same. With the rear horn
of the blade he hooked the cutter’s feet out from under him, and finished the job efficiently with the spike. The other man
was still kneeling beside the bucket, trying to clamp the gushing stump with his good hand. The hell with finesse, Ziani thought;
he pulled the spike clear and shoved it at the wounded man’s face. It was more luck than judgment that he stuck him precisely
where he’d aimed. In one ear and out the other, like listening to your mother.
His fingers went dead around the halberd shaft; it slipped through, and its weight dragged it down, though the spike was still
jammed in that poor bastard’s head. It had taken a matter of seconds; two lives ended, one life just possibly reprieved. It
was a curious sort of equilibrium, one he wasn’t eager to dwell on. Instead he thought: this is a stable, wouldn’t it be wonderful
if it had horses in it?
Of course, he had no idea how you went about harnessing a horse. He found a saddle, there was a whole rack of the things;
and bridles, and a bewildering selection of straps with buckles on, some or all of which you apparently needed in order to
make the horse go. He’d decided on the brown one; it wasn’t the biggest, but the other two looked tired (though he had no
idea what a tired horse was supposed to look like). Pinching the corners of its mouth got the bit in. He fumbled hopelessly
with the bridle straps, sticking the ends in the wrong buckles until eventually he managed to get the proper layout straight
in his mind. The saddle went on its back, that was obvious enough. There was some knack or rule of thumb about how tight the
girths needed to be. He didn’t know it, so he pulled the strap as tight as he could make it go. The horse didn’t seem to mind.
That just left getting on. Under better circumstances, he might well have been able to reach the stirrup. As it was, he had
to go back and fetch the bucket to stand on. It was slippery, and he nearly fell over.
I wish I knew how to do this,
he thought, and dug his heels into the horse’s ribs.
After that it was shamefully simple. The gatekeepers had seen him being caught and
stable bucket, shaking out dusty old grain. Ziani felt the wood under his chin. “Grab his hair,” the second warder said, “hold
him steady. Halberd’s not the right tool for this job.”
A simple matter of timing, then. Ziani felt the warder’s knuckles against his scalp, then the pain as his hair was pulled,
forcing his cheek against the bucket. He heard the cutter’s feet crackle in the straw as he stepped up to his mark, in his
mind’s eye he saw him take a grip on the halberd shaft and raise his arms. A good engineer has the knack of visualization,
the ability to orchestrate the concerted action of the mechanism’s moving parts. At the moment when he reckoned the cutter’s
swing had reached its apex and was coming down, he dug his knees into the straw and arched his back, jerking his shoulders
and head backward. He felt a handful of his hair pull out, but he was moving, hauling the other warder toward him.
He heard the halberd strike; a flat, solid shearing noise, as its edge bit into the warder’s forearms, catching them just
right against the base of the iron band that ran round the bottom of the bucket. By the time the warder screamed, he was loose;
he hopped up like a frog, located the cutter (standing with a stupid expression on his face, looking at the shorn stub of
his mate’s left hand) and stamped his foot into the poor fool’s kidneys. It wasn’t quite enough to put him down; but the other
man had obligingly left his halberd leaning up against a partition. All Ziani knew about weapons was how to make them, but
he did understand tools — leverage, mechanical advantage — and the principles were more or less the same. With the rear horn
of the blade he hooked the cutter’s feet out from under him, and finished the job efficiently with the spike. The other man
was still kneeling beside the bucket, trying to clamp the gushing stump with his good hand. The hell with finesse, Ziani thought;
he pulled the spike clear and shoved it at the wounded man’s face. It was more luck than judgment that he stuck him precisely
where he’d aimed. In one ear and out the other, like listening to your mother.
His fingers went dead around the halberd shaft; it slipped through, and its weight dragged it down, though the spike was still
jammed in that poor bastard’s head. It had taken a matter of seconds; two lives ended, one life just possibly reprieved. It
was a curious sort of equilibrium, one he wasn’t eager to dwell on. Instead he thought: this is a stable, wouldn’t it be wonderful
if it had horses in it?
Of course, he had no idea how you went about harnessing a horse. He found a saddle, there was a whole rack of the things;
and bridles, and a bewildering selection of straps with buckles on, some or all of which you apparently needed in order to
make the horse go. He’d decided on the brown one; it wasn’t the biggest, but the other two looked tired (though he had no
idea what a tired horse was supposed to look like). Pinching the corners of its mouth got the bit in. He fumbled hopelessly
with the bridle straps, sticking the ends in the wrong buckles until eventually he managed to get the proper layout straight
in his mind. The saddle went on its back, that was obvious enough. There was some knack or rule of thumb about how tight the
girths needed to be. He didn’t know it, so he pulled the strap as tight as he could make it go. The horse didn’t seem to mind.
That just left getting on. Under better circumstances, he might well have been able to reach the stirrup. As it was, he had
to go back and fetch the bucket to stand on. It was slippery, and he nearly fell over.
I wish I knew how to do this,
he thought, and dug his heels into the horse’s ribs.
After that it was shamefully simple. The gatekeepers had seen him being caught and
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